


Strike

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [22]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Spanking, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Jack really does have a spectacular arse. It takes a great deal of restraint for Phryne not to touch it at random moments, to stop thinking of the muscles moving beneath her fingertips as he thrusts into her, to keep her hands to herself when they are alone in his office, discussing the outcome of their latest case.A little spanking ficlet for PFF.





	Strike

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



> So, awhile back @redscudery started a conversation with "Jack needs to get spanked", and what sort of person starts a conversation that way? A bloody genius, that's who. My deeply vanilla smut-writing tendencies cowered in the face of a challenge, but be the change you want to see in the world and all that. ;-P Whether I rose to the challenge remains to be seen; it's not at all what I was expecting.
> 
> Getting posted 'early' (it is Friday here, but barely) because tomorrow involves way too many errands.

Jack really does have a spectacular arse. It takes a great deal of restraint for Phryne not to touch it at random moments, to stop thinking of the muscles moving beneath her fingertips as he thrusts into her, to keep her hands to herself when they are alone in his office, discussing the outcome of their latest case.

Yes, it demands an indecent amount of effort to keep her hands to herself.

Which is why, when his pen is dropped—she is using it to illustrate her theory and the blasted thing slips, genuinely and not at all because she wants to stare at his arse as he bends to retrieve it—she doesn’t. 

It’s meant as a joke, mostly, a mischievous moment of playfulness—a quick, sharp tap of her hand against his flesh; he’ll reprimand her and she’ll laugh, perhaps he’ll cock his head in that endearing way. And, to be fair, it starts that way—she smacks his arse, a little harder than she intended but certainly not enough to hurt. Except he bolts upright, drawing in a sharp, surprised breath, and she thinks she’s crossed some line; when he turns though, she recognises the look on his face and it’s certainly not anger. It is the look he gives her after a long nightcap, when their conversation has fallen away and left raw desire in its wake. Intriguing, and certainly unexpected.

He turns and steps closer, leaning forward to place his hands against the desk on either side of her hips, fencing her in. His chest heaves, his lips part, and the entire force of Jack Robinson’s arousal fills the small space between them; the weight of it almost makes her forget to breathe. But she does, a dozen memories of how the passion looks when it is unleashed tightening her entire body. 

While she has her fantasies—and there are many—she does not actually want to fuck on Jack’s desk at two in the afternoon with the door ajar. She also has no intention of backing down, so she tilts her chin up and meets his eyes, which are practically black with desire. 

“Miss Fisher,” he growls, deep and low and so aroused that she clenches her thighs slightly to counter the pulsing ache that has sprung up. “Dinner at mine?”

“Tonight?” she asks, finding herself oddly short of breath. “I would have to check my calendar.”

He rakes his eyes over her, smiling slightly, that maddening sort of smirk that nobody but Phryne would recognise; he’s aroused, he knows she’s aroused, he knows she knows. He has her precisely where he wants her; fortunately for him, it’s rather where she wants to be. 

“You do that, Miss Fisher,” he says, stepping back, his voice remarkably normal under the circumstances. “I, for one, have reports to attend to.”

She hops off the desk—the man might have the self-control of a monk, but she’s quite certain that beneath the calm exterior he’s suffering all sorts of torment. Which he bloody well deserves, looking like that. Sounding like that. Licking his lips like the only thing on the evening menu is her.

“I think it’s best if you presume I’m free, and I’ll have Mr. Butler ring the station if I’m not,” she says levelly; two can play this game, and regularly do. 

He nods and takes a seat—and if, perhaps, he was moving slightly more delicately due to the tenting of his trousers, Phryne does have the decency not to draw attention to the matter. If she wiggles as little more than usual as she sweeps from the room, it is entirely coincidental.

*

She has a box, a sleek mahogany chest that resides beneath her bed and contains all manner of interesting devices. Some she has to explain when she offers them to Jack, some he recognises himself, but the routine is the same regardless—Phryne chooses one, lays it in offer, Jack accepts or declines as the mood strikes him. Sometimes he has games or offers of his own, but the chest is hers.

It makes a satisfying click as it opens.

*

It’s winter, which means that the sky is already dark when Bert and Cec drop her off at Jack’s bungalow. The embarrassment of knowing the red raggers are aware of their assignations is less than the dangers of Phryne’s Hispano being left outside at all hours of the day and night, and even Jack has to concede the point. Phryne thanks the men and grabs her small bag—Jack has taken to stocking her favourite soaps and perfumes and half his wardrobe is filled with her clothes, but some items come with her. Especially tonight. 

When he answers the door, it is in shirtsleeves, a smear of flour on his cheek; she brushes it off with her thumb as she sashays inside, takes up residence in his parlour and pours them both a drink. There are evenings where she joins him in the kitchen, both of them moving in domestic tandem to prepare the meal, but tonight, she chooses to hold herself apart; the afternoon’s game is not forgotten, and when the meal is done she expects to take it to its logical conclusion.

Dinner is not Cordon Bleu levels, but it is delicious and satisfying, and when it is done they return to the parlour, lit by lamps and the low fire in the grate, and she extracts one of the evening’s aids from her overnight bag, lays it on the small table, and picks up her whiskey. Even in his own home he chooses to lean against the mantel, and the shadows make it hard to read his expression. 

She waits.

Eventually he moves from his position, lifting the item and smacking it against his palm thoughtfully. It’s a long paddle, made of supple wood wrapped in padded leather—enough to cause a delightful sting, but difficult to do real harm with. She expects a crack about using it on her for her meddling—it is, in fact, part of the offering game, to leave the specifics to the chooser—but he merely hums in contemplation. Reaches out with his free hand to draw her to her feet; she sets the whiskey tumbler aside and moves closer, teasing his lips with her tongue, drawing away when he moves to deepen the kiss.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” she says.

He wraps her hand gently over the paddle handle, swallowing hard; he seems almost ashamed, and she takes her free hand to trace the lines of his face lovingly. Dear, dear Jack, brave in so many ways.

“Clothes off,” she commands softly. “And if it gets too much—”

“I know.”

The purpose of the game is to tread the line between pleasure and pain, to heighten senses, not to hurt; she finds she has very little taste for the latter, personally. Stubbornness has no place in the boudoir, not like this; but Jack is not a prideful man, and he understands the rules. 

She watches him undress in the low light, the flickering of the flames casting shadows against all the planes and angles of his body. She appreciates his litheness, the strength of his muscles, the trail of hair that runs down his torso; he is a beautiful man, made more so by the circumstances. 

When he is naked, she circles around him, evaluating, memorising, planning; he accepts her scrutiny with no embarrassment, no shying away when she trails a finger down his spine, when she presses a kiss against his shoulder. 

The first smack is quick and sharp against the crease between buttocks and thigh; he jerks, cock hardening rapidly. A second, then a third in quick succession and he bites his lip to stifle a groan. She backs off, circles again, then continues. 

She varies the speed and strength of each strike until his cock is practically straining in arousal and anticipation, watches as his skin blossoms red—the lines across his body matching the flush in his cheeks. She imagines each sting, each soothing moment of air, the feel of his cock between her lips. His breath is quicker now, his control slipping; she drops to her knees and swallows him down, swirling her tongue against the head of his cock and tasting the salty pre-cum leaking from it. His thighs are trembling with exertion, his fingers tangling in her hair, tightening as she drives him closer to climax; she rides the edge for a moment, teasing him, drawing out their pleasure. For it is _their_ pleasure they seek and have found, for all she focuses on him.

A final rap of the paddle against his arse sends him into release with a hoarse shout; she swallows him down greedily then pulls away, rocking back onto her heels as she looks up at him. Whatever quip she’d intended dies away as she sees the open awe on his face, and he helps her to her feet. 

It is a rare thing, to be fully dressed when he is not; his finger traces along the neckline of her gown and she shudders, the tenderness in his touch little more than a feather against her skin. 

“And to think,” he huffs, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes; she does so love him, “all that over a pen.”


End file.
